Run to Me

Run to Me

Erin Golding

Run to Me

First Kindle Edition April 2012

Copyright © Erin Golding 2012

Cover photo and design © Kate Golding
2012

The moral rights of the author have
been asserted.

All rights reserved, including the
right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form, without the
written permission of the author.

All characters in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

For my Grandma June, who left this world before I became a writer. I know she
would have been cheering me on.

In the morning, I feel him stir beside me. He
snuggles up; nuzzling his face into my hair. His breath is warm on my neck and
his nose whistles with every exhale. The room smells of sex, and sweat, but I
like it. I breathe in deep; it is the scent of our desire.

His fingers trace circles around my
bellybutton. I lie still, letting the tickling sensation spread out over my
skin until I just can’t take it anymore.

I laugh. And his fingers stop dancing.

‘Was that tickling you?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm, I’ll have to remember that.’ 

He grips my hand, moving his hips closer so
I can feel him pressed against the small of my back.

‘You always smell like honeycomb.’

He makes sniffing noises, like a dog
latching on to the scent of its dinner. I laugh and tilt my head.

Still his hand is on my stomach.

We stay like this for a while, his breath
warming the back of my neck and our bodies curving together. I feel his pulse
against my shoulder and it quickens with each passing minute.

‘Come with me,’ he says.

I close my eyes and picture us embracing,
far away on the other side of the world.

‘Hey,’ he says, burying his face deep in my
hair so the rest is muffled.

Turning, my head moulds another useless
crevasse into my pillow.

‘What?’ I ask, even though I know.

He half sits up, and rolls over me so our
noses are almost touching.

‘I think I love you,’ he says, again.

There is terror in his eyes, so I smile.

‘You’re not sure?’

‘What?’ he asks, frowning.

‘You said you think.’

For a moment the frown takes over his whole
face. His forehead creases and his nostrils flare. Then he realises I am
smiling.

He starts to laugh; one of his gregarious,
haunting laughs. And I join in.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I was petrified.’

‘I know.’

He nods and nuzzles into my armpit.

‘That tickles too,’ I say, inching away.

He wraps his arm around me once more and our
fingers curl together under the starched sheet.

‘I really do, you know,’ he says.

I don’t respond straight away. Instead, I
close my eyes and focus on the feeling of his kneecap resting so perfectly in
the curve of my leg. It isn’t bone against flesh but a melting, like soft jam
over warm bread. It makes no sense, but he is here with me, now, merging into
my skin.

There is only one thing I can say.

I slide into him and press my lips to his
earlobe.

‘I love you too,’ I whisper.

Tomorrow he will be gone.

One

Last night I dreamt I stood on top of a snow-tipped
mountain. Off in the distance, past a valley filled with rainforest, the sun
surrendered to the horizon, creating patterns in the sky with shades of every
colour imaginable. I stood there, my feet buried ankle deep in the white powder,
and watched until the colours merged to black. I wasn’t cold; I wasn’t much of
anything. I just felt calm. 

Now, with the bed empty beside me and the day
waiting, I close my eyes and try to paint that image in my mind. But it doesn’t
work. The moment has passed.

I look at my watch. 7.13. Time to face the day.

I can hear Luke in the kitchen; toast popping
and the clatter of the cutlery drawer, but I don’t join him. Instead I slip
into the bathroom and close the door gently behind me. Once the water’s warm, I
stand directly under the shower head. I don’t move. I just close my eyes and
let it cascade over me. I stay like this for a while with the soft drumming on
the top of my head and the trickling down the length of my body. The skin on my
thighs starts to turn a mottled red, on fire from the stinging water. I ease
off the hot tap a little. I’ve almost roasted myself.

Beads of water have collected on my breast in a
little trail leading to my nipple. I wipe them off, the tips of my fingers
brushing over my nipples making them stand at attention. I consider calling out
to Luke but I know he’ll say he doesn’t have time. I run my hands over the
outer edges of my thighs, feeling the slight creases of cellulite and the odd
pimple under my fingers. He’s always loved my thighs.

I flip off the taps. There is a squelch as I step
onto the bathmat. I dry myself then wipe off the fogged up mirror. Squeezing
some moisturiser into my palms I start to sweep it over my face, always in an
upwards motion just as Nanna had shown me. To stop the cheeks getting droopy,
she’d said. I run my fingers over the creases that fan out near my eyelids and
shake my head. Only thirty-four and already getting wrinkles. What would Nanna
say about that?

Back in our room, I open my cupboard doors and
run my eyes over the shirts and skirts and pants that hang neatly there. These
suits remind me of my mother and I detest having to dress like an old matron,
but I have to look the part today. I can hear my mother’s words of wisdom – ‘if
you want respect you have to look respectable.’ I pull out a plain white shirt
and a brown pencil skirt with matching jacket. How boring, but what choice do I
have? I can’t turn up in jeans.

I quickly run a brush through my hair, rolling
all the loose strands into a ball and flicking it into the bin. He hates these
clumps of hair, says it’s like living with a moulting dog. He’s forever in the
shower with the plunger, sucking the balls out of the plug hole. He calls them
‘rats’ because they are furry, and round, and disgusting.

The shattering of china explodes down the
hallway followed by a string of curses. I head down and swing open the kitchen
door. Luke is crouched by the shattered plate, sweeping the mangled pieces into
the dustpan. His shirt is still untucked and unbuttoned. I can see the top
curve of his stomach muscles twitching with each sweep of his arm.

‘At least it wasn’t one of the good ones,’ I
say, bending down to curl my hand around the back of his neck and kiss the top
of his head, amongst the wavy fuzz. ‘Morning.’

‘Morning. The bloody thing. Slipped clean out of
my hand.’

‘Whatever you say, butter fingers.’ I walk past
him and open the fridge.

He stands and begins shovelling the mess into
the bin. I turn to watch as he flicks the brush and taps the dustpan on the rim
of the bin to get out any stragglers. He has rolled up one shirt sleeve,
exposing the olive brown skin of his forearm. I’m a real sucker for forearms.

I move towards him, encircling my arms around
his chest, inside the open flaps of his shirt.

‘Argh. Hoo hoo oooh,’ he says, flinching. ‘Cold
hands. Cold hands.’ 

‘What, these hands?’ I laugh, rubbing my icy
fingers over his skin.

‘Seriously. They’re freezing.’ He holds the
dustpan in one hand and uses the other to flick mine away, then he steps from
my grasp.

I turn back to the fridge. It’s full after the
weekend shopping trip: veggies for stir-fry, mince for spag bol, chicken for my
infamous coconut curry. All food that can be reheated when he gets home.

‘So, ready for today?’ he asks, hanging the
dustpan back on its hook.  

‘Who knows.’

He laughs. ‘I thought you might.’

I pull out the tub of yoghurt and dump it on the
bench. While I’m getting my breakfast he stands there, arms crossed, leaning
against the doorframe, waiting.

‘I always hate the first day,’ I say with a
shrug. ‘You know that.’

He nods slowly. ‘Sure...’

‘I’ll be fine. I know what to expect.’

‘A bunch of snotty teenagers and bad canteen
food?’

‘Exactly.’

We both smile and Luke nods again. He glances at
his watch and sighs a deep, drawn out sigh.

‘Gotta go.’

He takes a long slurp from his coffee mug. I
watch as he does up his shirt buttons and starts to collect his stuff. Keys go
into the left trouser pocket, mobile and wallet into the right. Always the
same.

He catches me smirking.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, Mr obsessive compulsive.’

Luke shakes his head.

‘One day just try the keys in the right pocket.
I dare you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why? What will happen? Catastrophic worldwide
disaster? Pigeons ruling the earth? That kind of thing?’

I am smiling, and laughing, but Luke doesn’t
look impressed. I change the subject.

‘So how about a curry tonight?’

‘I’ll be home late.’

My stomach tightens. I tell myself to just hold
it in, hold it in, unconditional love,
unconditional
.

Too late. He’s awoken the bitch.

‘Of course. Like any day ending in Y,’ I say.

He gives me the look. The
you’re-trying-my-patience look. He’s perfected this look over the years.

‘Time zones don’t change because you want me
home for dinner. I can only deal with the guys in London when they’re actually
awake
.’

He stares at me without blinking.

‘It’s no big deal, right?’

I look out the window. A line of morning
sunlight streaks across the grass in the backyard, leaving tree-shaped shadows
on the picket fence. ‘I suppose not,’ I say.

‘We can do a curry tomorrow night.’

I almost laugh. ‘Hmm.’

‘What time will you be home?’

‘Four, hopefully.’

He snorts. ‘My day’s just getting started.’

I turn back to him. ‘They’re grown men you work
with you know.’

‘I know, Abby.’

‘So just do
your
work. You’d be done by a
decent time.’

‘Like just after lunch?’

‘Four is not just after lunch.’

‘Close enough.’

‘Jealous much?’

‘Hardly.’

I smile at Luke and see him force one back.

‘I’ll call you after four then,’ he says.

‘If you can manage it.’

He rolls his eyes and looks away. He lifts the
mug to his lips and downs the coffee in one large gulp. Then he throws his
jacket over his arm and moves towards me.

‘I’ll be home as early as I can, OK?’

He leans in and tentatively kisses me.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he says.

The kitchen door swings shut behind him. I stare
out the window, listening to the garage door go up and the car start. I close
my eyes, but the mountain sunset image is still out of reach.

***

My eyes open and straight up I’ve got that awful
feeling of dread in my gut. I look at the clock. 7.13. Crap. Time to get
moving.

I drag myself from under the doona and stumble to
the bathroom. The Chief’s already been here, stinking it up. It smells like
rotten eggs, with a bit of baked beans thrown in. I lock the door and take a
seat on the dunny, adding my own stench to the mix. Mum’ll flip when it’s her
turn.

After a quick shower and an even quicker tug I
walk to the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast. Mum’s there. Standing at the
stove, in her dressing-gown, making The Chief his scrambled eggs.

‘Good morning,’ she says, attempting to kiss me
on the cheek but I duck out of the way.

‘Quit it Mum.’

‘All right. Would you like some eggs, love?’

‘Nah’.

I’ve got my head in the fridge seeking out that
left-over pizza. It’s been pushed right up the back behind the beer and that
rotten yoghurt Bianca eats. I eye the beer and wish I could sneak one under my
shirt. Not with him watching. Instead I grab the pizza and take a glorious
bite.

‘Paul, don’t eat that. It’s been there for days.’
Mum makes a half-arsed attempt at parenting but she knows she couldn’t stop me
anyway.

Again I duck out from her grasp and pull up a
chair next to The Chief. He folds up his paper and rests it on the table,
staring at the pizza as I shovel it into my mouth.

‘Good?’ he asks.

I nod.

He scratches his shaved head and then folds his
arms tightly across his beefy chest.

‘I need you to help out on the site today.
You’ll have to come straight after school,’ he says.

‘Aww come on. It’s the first day back and I want
to catch up with the guys.’

‘No buts. We’re a couple of men short today.’

I groan.

‘Don’t be like that.’ It’s Mum, serving up his
eggs. She lays her hand on The Chief’s shoulder and smiles down at me. Her hair
is sticking up all over the place and there’s some grey near her temples. I’ve
never noticed that before.

‘Your father needs you today,’ she says.

‘Whatever,’ I mumble. ‘I’m out of here’.

I can hear him yelling as I grab my bag and
throw open the front door.

‘Remember Paul. Straight after school. No
excuses.’

I pick up the pace as I make my way across the
deserted paddock that leads from my place to the school. Summer’s still in full
swing; I can hear the cicadas already and the sun beats down on my back. I peel
off my blazer and shove it in my bag, amongst my books and joggers. Matt and I
were talking about going for a run after school but now The Chief’s had his say
I suppose I’ll have to give that a miss.   

I dip into my pocket and pull out my crushed
pack of cigarettes. The box is mangled. I think I sat on it. There are only two
cigs left and one is bent neat in half. I swear I had more than two left. I
only bought this pack a couple of days ago.

Bianca.

That little bitch. I should put a lock on my
door. Yeah, right. The Chief would never go for it. He’d have it ripped out, or
jammed up, or something.

Shit. She’s taken my lighter too.

I reach the edge of the paddock and I can hear
the telltale swish-and-bang of the skate park. One of these guys must have a
light. I trudge up the road and push open the rusted gate. The thing’s pretty
much hanging off its hinges. The whole fence is on a lean. Still, there are a
bunch of schoolies sitting alongside it on the concrete. It’ll probably fall
and smack someone on the head one of these days.

The skate park’s not really a park. There’s
definitely no trees or grass in this shit hole. Just a basketball court with
faded line markings and only one goal post. The other end once had a metal hoop
mounted on the brick wall, but some Michael Jordan wannabes had pulled it clean
out of there. Doesn’t matter. No one really comes here to play basketball
anyway. It’s all about the skate ramp.

I keep walking along the edge of the half-pipe,
towards a couple of guys standing by the dumpster. Next to me, Moody and Rogers
skate back and forth. The wheels on Moody’s board are worn down to the quick.
The rims bite at the wooden ramp, sending out this annoying scratching noise
every time he whips past.

‘Any you boys got a light?’ I ask, pulling up
alongside the dumpster.

The guys all turn to look at me, then smirk at
each other.

‘Beckett, mate. Haven’t seen you round here for
ages,’ says T.J, raising his eyebrows.

‘Yeah we reckoned McFadden scared you off for
good.’ Dave reaches inside his blazer and pulls out a box of matches. He hands
them to me.

‘I don’t scare that easily. Especially not by
some knucklehead like McFatty.’ I light my cigarette and throw the box at Dave.
‘Thanks.’ 

They’re all looking behind me so I turn. Amanda
is sidling towards me, leaving her team of num-nut friends giggling behind her.
She halts so damn close to me all I can smell is baby oil. She’s obviously
still smothering herself in it every morning.